


Dust and Silk

by niick



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Gerard Keay Lives, I mean in the theoretical sense, M/M, Moth!Jon, On Hiatus, Pining Martin Blackwood, Sasha James Lives, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) Lives, Web!Martin, canon typical gay pining, everyone is an insect/arthropod of some sort, fuck Jurgen Leitner, in the most literal sense, what the frick is canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niick/pseuds/niick
Summary: Martin finds a moth in his Web.Jon meets a very interesting spider.
Relationships: Background Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner - Relationship, Background Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley - Relationship, Background Melanie King/Georgie Barker, Background Peter Lukas/Elias Bouchard - Relationship, Background Tim Stoker/Sasha James, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 136
Kudos: 320





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this weird AU of mine!! I'll try to keep up between updates on A Becoming

* * *

There was a moth stuck in his Web.

Martin was used to having bugs in his Web. He assumed it was hard to see, hung there by his little cottage, and he really didn’t mind untangling the odd dragonfly or butterfly. After all, he really only used his Webs to make thread for his sweaters and patterns between the trees to amuse passersby, so he felt no need to keep anyone for… well, a snack.

But Martin had never caught a _moth_ before.

Moths were smart. Moths _Saw_ things that they shouldn’t have been able to see, _Knew_ things that they shouldn’t have been able to know.

So if there was a moth in his web, well, it must’ve been pretty disoriented. And Martin wasn’t one to leave people, pardon the word choice… _hanging._

So he soon found himself out on his porch, casting about to find the Threads that he had first felt the Pull in.

Martin’s Webs were a part of him, and he could always tell when something was tied up in them without having to look. They were an extension of his heart, in a way, and each tangled critter was another tug in the back of his mind.

_There!_ A twinge through his skull directed him to the far side of the house, just shy of crossing the road. Martin stepped gingerly into the rain, the drops springing off his white curls.

He pushed carefully through the trees, wary of Anabelle’s Threads mixed in with his own. He would rather not alert her to his charitability, and he knew she would eat the moth in a heartbeat. Anabelle was kind to take him in, to let him stay in the house, but he knew how manipulative she could be.

No making friends with _moths._ No talking to Elias, no talking to Gertrude. That’s just how things went, when you were a spider. 

He knew better than anyone to heed Anabelle’s warnings, but he also couldn’t ignore his own desire to help bugs in need.

He pushed the last tree aside, and his breath caught in his throat.

His Webs were a blur of dusty brown and silver, torn nearly to shreds by a shaking mass of wings and antennae and frantic legs.

The moth caught in his Web was, as most caught often are, in its smaller of two forms. Bugs like Martin, bugs like this moth, weren’t, per se, _normal_ bugs.

See, the world works in interesting ways. And in these particular woods, the world worked in a very interesting way indeed.

There were ‘normal’ bugs, of course. Spiders and beetles and ants and mosquitos still roamed, same as him and Annabelle. The difference between them and ‘normal’ bugs was their Magic.

There were fourteen Orders of bugs in these woods. 

There were the moths, fluttering under the mantle of The Eye, who watched over everything with a stern gaze. 

There were the spiders, like Martin and Annabelle, who called themselves The Web and pulled the forest together with their Threads.

There were the dragonflies, secluded under The Lonely and scarcely seen, only making themselves known when there was something that they needed. 

There were the centipedes and millipedes, under the title of The Spiral, twisting and disorienting with far too many legs. 

There were the butterflies, The Stranger, aloof and theatrical and oh-so-confusing. Their colors bled together until it was hard to focus, and they hated the moths even more than the spiders did. 

There were the scorpions, best avoided, who prowled under The Hunt and wouldn’t hesitate to strike down any bug in their way.

There were the mantises, angry and dangerous and going by The Slaughter, who would kill another bug without hesitation. They were few in number, but that didn’t stop them from being a threat.

There were the grasshoppers, soaring and leaping, who called themselves The Vast and rejoiced in the thrill of taking a plunge. Anabelle found them fun, but Martin found them unnerving.

There were the wasps, cruel and stinging who destroyed for no reason, earning them the title of The Desolation. Martin hated them the most, and he shuddered to think of what they would do to one of his webs.

  
  


There were the stick bugs, all odd angles and jutting exoskeletons, who called themselves The Flesh. Their number was down to one, but that made them no less unsettling to be around. Martin had often found Jared cracking his body into horrible shapes, and the image was burned into his eyes.

There were the beetles, who came when there was nothing left, earning the fitting title of The End. They were always composed, a virtue that had Martin burning with jealousy.

There were The Corruption, the flies, buzzing and horrid and thriving in rot. Martin stayed as far away from them as he could, dreading the image of larvae squirming in his Webs.

There were, of course, the crickets, although few remained. The head of them, who had designated their title The Dark, had long since been dealt with by the other orders, and what members remained stayed deep in the shadows.

And finally, there were the ants. The Buried. At least… Martin _thought_ there were ants. He had never actually seen one, but every so often, he heard shifting in the ground. Martin did not like the idea of the ants in the slightest.

All of these Orders were headed by a single bug, each picked by a system even Martin had no clue of. The important thing was that they weren’t _just_ bugs. They were bigger, of course. More human. Martin thought that… maybe, just maybe, they were all human once, long before they came to these Woods, but… well, maybe it was for the best that he couldn’t remember.

Exposition aside, all of their kind had two forms. One was small, agile, and more, well, bug-like. Almost indistinguishable from your average forest critter, aside from the clear glimmer of sentience in the eyes.

The second form was larger, humanoid. Parts of their nature remained, of course. Moths had their arching wings, spiders had their spindly legs stretching from their back and well…

Martin was getting off topic, and perhaps he was stalling.

Because, although this moth was small and bug-like, Martin could tell they were gorgeous.

Their wings were large and full, decorated in wide, staring eye-spots that gave him an intense feeling of being watched. Both their wings and abdomen were a fair, dusty brown, lighter than tree bark but darker than a river.

When the light hit the eye-spots just right, they gleamed in a silvery green glow.

Martin was entranced.

He took a careful step forward, freckled hands already extended towards the Web. He lowered his voice to nearly a whisper, keeping it soft and reassuring as he approached the tangled insect.

“Hey… it’s gonna be okay, alright? I… I don’t _eat_ people, or anything.”

He continued to speak as he guided his hands through the Threads, pulling apart silvery strands of silk.

“I know that spiders get a bad rep but… please, just trust me?”

The moth seemed to sag in the web, frantic legs coming to a rest. They relaxed their wings, allowing Martin to pull them carefully from the knot.

They were a comforting weight in his hands, soft and delicate and like nothing he had ever touched before. They twitched in his fingers, turning their wings to face Martin as if to display…

And _oh_ , they were _injured._

There was a small, jagged tear through their left wing, cutting right down the middle of one of its stripes. Now that Martin was looking he could see many other healed scars streaking the wings, most the even, circular holes left by the flies.

This wound would clearly keep them from flying, and Martin had to push down a guilty little rise of glee.

_What a shame,_ he thought, smiling. _Guess I’ll have to keep them for a while, at least until they’re healed._

He lifted the moth up carefully onto his jumper, smiling as they clutched the threads with their six spindly legs.

“I’m going to bring you in so you can heal, is that alright?”

The moth waved their antennae at him, though the gesture seemed hesitant and almost… grumpy? He took that as a yes, and began to push back through the trees.

He must have been distracted, though, because he didn’t even notice his shoulder brushing a Web. Silver threads that were not his wove their way into his jumper, and, somewhere, Anabelle felt a Tug.

* * *

He placed the moth carefully on top of his counter, closing the door quietly behind him. He shook the rain out of his hair, and then headed deeper into the kitchen.

He turned for a second back to the moth, regarding them with all eight of his eyes.

“Would you like some tea?”

The moth waved their antenna again, shaking the moisture out of their wings.

Martin stepped back into the small kitchen area, fumbling through his cupboards for mugs and tea bags. He set the water to boil, the familiar motions calming his thudding heart. He chose a pair of novelty mugs at random, chuckling down at the designs that greeted him.

One had a cartoonish spider on it with large text proclaiming “Mr. Spider wants tea!” and the other had a spider web pattern with text that said “I majored in WEB development!”

The kettle began to hiss, and he hurried over to finish the process. He decided to go with Earl Grey, figuring that it would at least be familiar to his guest, and he turned back around to ask the moth how they took their tea.

His mug nearly dropped from his hands, and his jaw _did_ drop.

There, sitting on his counter, was possibly the prettiest person he had ever seen.

They had long, knotted brown hair a shade darker than their wings, and it was shot through with grey strands that gave them a mature appearance. Their skin was a dark and warm brown, speckled with pale white scars reminiscent of The Corruption. 

Their eyes, which were somewhere between coffee and forest green, were underlined by deep bags that took absolutely _nothing_ away from their beauty. Their facial hair was neat and dignified, though it edged on the scruffier side. Thin, branching antennae sprung up from their forehead, falling flat down the sides of their head.

They were wearing thin, rectangular glasses, silver chain snaking from their edges around the back of their neck. A sweater vest fit snug on their thin frame - which was far too thin, if you asked Martin - and the sleeves on the dress shirt under it were rolled up to their elbows. Their left hand had a red scar on it, mottled and raised and a clear signature of The Desolation.

And their _wings..._

Their wings were gorgeous, arching things. Martin could see so much more of them now that they were full sized, and it struck him how realistic the eye-spots were… or did they just move? The brown had white speckles dotted through it that was not unlike constellations, adding a dreamy quality to the wings that Martin had never seen before...

He was shaken out of his stupor by a small cough, and he realized that the moth had cleared their throat.

“Um, sorry, did you say something?” Martin asked, nerves shaking his words.

“I was just saying… er, I take my tea with milk and no sugar, please.”

Even their voice was gorgeous, smooth and deep in all the right places and…

Martin realized he was staring.

“Oh! Yeah, of course! Sorry! It’s nice to meet you, Mx…. um. What would you like me to call you?”

The moth straightened up, discomfort clear in their posture. One antenna twitched against their head, orange among all that brown hair.

“Jonathan… Jon Sims. He/Him, if you don’t mind,” he said, voice low.

Martin nodded in lieu of having anything to say, turning back to the kitchen. He quickly prepared the tea in the way the man had specified, subconsciously making a mental note of the specification for when… _if_ he ever came back.

He turned his head while he worked, trying his best to maintain pleasant conversation.

“Um, my name is Martin! Also he/him. I don’t see many moths in the area these days, do you mind if I ask what happened?”

The moth - _Jon_ \- flinched, eyes dropping to his lap. Martin quickly scrambled to apologize, hands fluttering in the air as his spindly legs continued preparing the tea.

“I’m sorry! You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I just-”

The moth sighed, stepping down from where he had been sitting on the counter. He ran his left wing through his hands, and Martin got a good look at the injury.

“No, Martin, it’s fine. I… a mantis got a swipe at me while I was on my way home, I didn’t have time to change course before I crash-landed in your web. I’m sorry for imposing, I can walk home on my own.”

  
  


Martin spun around, mugs clutched in his hands.

“No!”

He flushed, clearly surprising himself with his own outburst.

“I...I just think… well, it’s a pretty bad injury and… I’m good at stitching things! I can weave it up right as rain, no problem.” He smiled at Jon, passing him the mug embossed with Mr. Spider.

Jon took it, his expression softening.

“I… okay. I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

He sipped at his tea, and the house was silent for a moment. When he lowered it, there was a more serious look on his face.

“Can I trust you, Martin?”

The words carried a pressure that Martin had never felt before, and he suddenly felt an overbearing urge to tell the truth.

“Yes. I really want to get to know you.”

Jon’s expression relaxed, and he took another sip.

“Okay, thank you. Sorry for the compulsion, I had to be sure…”

At Martin’s shocked glance, he laughed. It was the best sound Martin had ever heard, high and lilting like the peal of a bell.

“You really _have_ never met a moth before, have you?”

Martin shook his head, white curls bouncing around his ears. His face was nearly red by now, his freckles standing stark against the flushed skin.

“N...No, I… my Head doesn’t like me talking to Elias, so-”

Jon laughed louder at that, smile lines causing the scars around his mouth to shift and move.

“I don’t like me talking to Elias either, that’s probably for the best.”

The moth leaned forward, pulling a book from a bag somewhere on his back. It was carefully hand-bound, the umber of the leather nearly matching the plumage on his wings. He flipped it open with practiced hands, his other two spindly legs tapping against the counter behind him. He had a pen in his hand, too, a shimmering silver thing that was embossed with green eyes.

He smiled at Martin, pen poised over his journal.

“Sorry, er, if you don’t mind me asking… what kind of spider are you?”

“...Excuse me?” Martin sputtered, speaking through a mouthful of tea.

Jon straightened up, embarrassment crossing his features.

“Oh, er, I… I like to record the species of the other arthropods I meet... I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

He turned his notebook around, and it was indeed filled with detailed notes and small sketches of different parts. Martin looked closer, and he spotted an intricate drawing of Jon’s own wings. They were sketched out in scientific detail, each scar and pattern noted and labelled. Underneath, in thin, scrawling handwriting, it was labelled _Jonathan Sims - Polyphemus Moth. Antheraea polyphemus._

Martin looked back up at Jon, a smile breaking over his face.

“These are lovely, Jon! Did you… did you draw these?”

The moth flushed a faint pink, turning his journal back around.

“...Yes. I, um… I just find it fascinating, that’s all.”

Martin took another sip of his tea, humming in thought.

“I’m a garden spider.”

Jon looked up, surprise clear in his eyes. He scrambled for his pen, turning to an empty page and pressing it to the paper.

“Common name and scientific? If you know it.” His eyes were lit up, and Martin found it _very_ endearing.

“Um… Yellow Garden Spider… and I believe it’s _Argiope aurantia._ ”

Jon’s pen darted across the paper, his scrawling handwriting soon filling the page.

“And your markings… are they more hourglass-shaped or mask-shaped?” He asked, putting the tip of his pen in his mouth.

“Oh! Um, I suppose they’re more mask shaped… would you like to see?”

Jon’s face lit up somehow even further, his mouth splitting into a grin.

“If you don’t mind, I would love that.”

Martin placed his mug down on the counter, and he reached his hand forward. Jon took it in his, his scarred palm warm against Martin’s freckled fingers.

Martin willed himself to shift, feeling his legs stretch out and take hold of that scarred flesh. He skittered up and into Jon’s palm, who was growing more and more overjoyed by the second.

Martin was a fairly large spider. When he fully stretched out, he was about the size of Jon’s palm. His legs were streaked in black and orange, and he saw them in front of him as he carefully ventured down to Jon’s knee.

Jon brought his pen back down to his paper, and Martin watched as he sketched.

And Martin felt _Seen._

Jon started with his legs, eightfold and arching in orange in black. He carefully drew the way they curved outward, back and front legs longer than the middle two. He moved on to Martin’s abdomen, carefully sketching out it’s yellow coloring and it’s mask-like black patterning. He finished Martin’s grey head and mandibles with a precise stroke, sitting back with a smile.

And underneath it all, in a steady hand, he wrote _Martin Blackwood - Yellow Garden Spider. Argiope_ _aurantia,_ although Martin couldn't remember if he had ever given Jon his last name.

Jon looked… healthier. His skin was warmer and his cheekbones less pronounced, his eye bags a bit shallower. He held out a careful hand to Martin, smiling down at the spider.

“Thank you.”

Martin pushed his form away from Jon, feeling feet form and land back on the hardwood of his kitchen. He felt more Known than he had ever felt before, there under Jon’s studious gaze.

“Ah, It was really… no problem at all.”

He paused awkwardly, not sure how to respond to what had just happened.

“Now… How about I fix up that wing?”

* * *


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's wing gets fixed, and he and Annabelle have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No thoughts... brain empty.... another update already because I love my weird little insect au... Sorry this one is a bit shorter, it flowed kinda weird? I didn't want to make this scene longer than it needed to be.

* * *

Martin’s touch was careful on his wings. Thick, freckled fingers pressed carefully into the soft chitin, weaving silvery spider threads through the gash. Jon watched as Martin pulled threads out from his jumper, sowing his wing together with practiced skill. The strings were foreign yet comfortable in the spaces between his scales, and he could feel Martin’s care through every thread.

Jon really wished he hadn’t had to turn to the spiders. He Knew of Annabelle, and he Knew of how  _ protective _ she could be of her ilk. He was usually smarter than this, usually knew how to properly avoid the Webs between the trees...

He just couldn’t help himself from trusting Martin.

It might’ve been the way he made the tea - warm, just a bit sweet, and perfect in every way - or maybe the way he had untangled Jon without a second thought - his hands were even warmer than the tea - or it might’ve just been the surefire way he had answered Jon’s compulsion, but Jon trusted him.

So he let himself be steadily marked by Martin, spider’s Webs fusing themselves to his wing in a silvery, arching pattern, swirling bright among his stripes and spots. He was nearly certain that Martin had no idea what he was doing, how he was linking them… but Jon trusted him.

And Jon continued to maintain trust in Martin when, as he had Foreseen, the door to the cottage slammed open.

Martin leaped to his feet, hands flying away from Jon’s wings in a desperate plea to stay hidden, his other arching legs shuffling tight behind his back.

Annabelle, of course, was no idiot. And at this point in time, she was furious.

She burst through the door, all waving legs and bleached hair and ruby lips. All eight of her eyes shone a deep red, the color tainted dark with anger. Her dark skin was flushed, white webbing on her forehead standing stark against the brown of her face.

Jon, unbidden, Saw her entry in his journal. Black and spindly and deadly, red hourglass standing as a warning on her broad abdomen.  _ Annabelle Cane - Western Black Widow. Latrodectus hesperus. _

He rose to his feet, wing still connected by thin threads to the silk of Martin’s jumper. Her eyes traced the line of it, following it to Martin’s hands and then, further up, his pale, freckled face.

“Martin, dear?” She said, voice sweet and ploying.

“Y...Yes! Annabelle, if I knew you were coming I would’ve-”

“Save it, Martin. You know why I’m here, don’t you?” Her eyes traced back over the thread, settling with an intense heat on Jon’s wings. He twitched them carefully in response, and she finally met his eyes.

“Annabelle Cane.”

“ _ Jonathan Sims.”  _ She smiled tightly. One of her eyes twitched, the only sign betraying her perfectly manufactured disinterest. “Elias told me about you,  _ Journalist _ . Figured I’d be seeing you sooner rather than later.” She twitched a manicured finger and he was pulled forward in a lurching jolt, a thin, red thread detaching itself from his shirt.

He stumbled to stand by her side, rubbing at his chest but not all that surprised. Annabelle had her…  _ way _ with people, after all.

“Martin?” She turned to the other spider, her smile softening.

The man made a strangled, squeaking sound, stepping forward.

“Ma’am?”

“What did I say about interacting with moths?” She asked, voice still sweet and high.

He began to stammer, arms coming up to fiddle with his clothes.

“I- Well, he was stuck in my Web, and I couldn’t just  _ leave  _ him there so-”

She clapped her hands together, once, sharp, cutting him off.

“Martin. Dear. You had a  _ moth. _ In your  _ Web. _ And you didn’t think to call me? You know how…  _ persuasive _ they can be.”

Martin flinched back, eyes darting from Annabelle to Jon and back again.

“I… I thought you were going to hurt him. I’m sorry.”

She laughed, but it was cold and her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Why would I  _ hurt  _ him? Elias’ precious Journalist? Do you know how much  _ trouble _ that would get me in?”

Martin fell silent, shuffling in place. Jon stepped up to his side, putting a firm hand on his shoulder, reassuring and warm. When he spoke, he kept his voice measured and flat, leveling his eyes on the woman across from him.

“Annabelle Cane. I believe we should talk.”

She smiled a real smile at that, eyes crinkling at the corners, not unlike the spiderwebs crisscrossing her scalp.

“Yes, I believe that’d be for the best.”

* * *

Annabelle slammed him up against the wall, crushing tender wings against the wooden planks.

“ _ What _ are you doing with my Weaver,  _ Journalist? _ ”

Jon winced, placing his scarred hand on top of the manicured one that held him by his collar. Her nails dug into his throat, growing longer and sharper the harder she pushed.

“Anna..belle! I’m not  _ doing _ anything. It’s… just as he said. I was careless and... got tangled.”

She relinquished slightly, allowing him to draw in long, gulping breaths of air. She pinned him under her intense glare, eight ruby eyes fixing on his two hazel ones. Her eyes wandered to his wing, taking in the silver threads woven into the brown.

“...I see it’s already too late, anyway. I love Martin but… he isn’t the brightest.”

She released him fully, stepping back. Her eyes flicked up to maintain eye contact, piercing through his skull.

“But don’t misunderstand, Journalist. If I feel  _ one _ tug on those threads he left you…” She smiled then, sharp and venomous fangs on full display. “I won’t show you the same mercy that he did.”

A drop of sweat made its way down his face as he nodded. He reached a hand up to his wing, fingers exploring the new threads. They were smooth and raised to the touch, ran through with the warmth of Martin’s hands.

“I…” He coughed. “I won’t.” 

He shuffled, reaching behind him to the uninjured wing on his back. With a sharp tug and a wince he soon had a scale in his palm, flat and blue and reflective. The pattern on it shifted and swirled, an eye-spot forming to focus on Annabelle.

“I’ll even… leave him this. As assurance. If Elias tries to do anything, he can call me.”

Annabelle seemed satisfied at that, a smug smile crossing her face. She crossed her arms, regarding him with a measured expression.

“And what about the others? I’m sure they’re eager for… new blood.”

He sighed, shifting in place. His antennae twitched in nervous irritation, catching a few grey strands of hair and pulling them from their spot at his shoulder.

“He can… call me whenever. It’s his decision. I will  _ not _ promise to be your walking monster manual, however much of a hold you might have on me in this place.”

She laughed her lilting laugh and twisted her fingers together with a clicking of acrylic nails. Thin, red threads became visible, filling the room and trailing across his wings and clothes.

“Wise choice, Journalist.”

She began to walk towards the door, strings fading from sight.

“Now. Why don’t we finish this over tea?”

* * *

Martin watched with wide eyes as the two re-entered the room. Jon’s face was tight - a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, and a darkening of his eyes - and his wings were pulled flush against his back. He held something in his unscarred hand, something that gleamed and shifted and was just out of sight.

Annabelle had that look on her face - like a cat who had eaten a fat bird - and Martin’s back immediately began to crawl. Red threads were trailing from her other four legs, which were folded up loosely against the small of her back.

Jon immediately went for his mug, picking it up with his scarred hand and holding the other out to Martin. Flat in his palm sat a smooth scale of chitin, an eye-spot framed dead in the center by swirling streaks of brown.

Martin took it with careful fingers, turning it over in his palm. It was soft, the same, dusty soft of Jon’s wings, and it carried with it the same warmth of the moth’s hands. He looked up at Jon with wide, questioning eyes, carefully slipping the scale into his pocket.

Jon spoke without being asked, voice smooth.

“It’s like… a calling card,” he said, fingering the threads in his wing. “Like the one you left me. It’s so I can keep an Eye on you.”

The moth glanced at Annabelle and then back to Martin, letting out a thin, breathy sigh.

“If you’re ever in trouble, tell it my name. I’ll… do my best to help”

“...What do you mean, like the one I left you?” Martin asked, sending a cautionary glance towards Annabelle.

The woman turned from where she had moved to the kitchen, novelty mug already in hand.

“Oh, Martin, dear, I forgot to say. If one of our Order… if a  _ spider _ leaves someone their threads-” She pointed to Jon’s wing, where silver shimmered across the mended cut.

“-they can Tug on them to call the spider! My webs work in the same way, you know. The one you brushed in the forest called me here, after all!”

She waved a perfectly manicured finger, and a red thread wormed its way out of Martin’s jumper to join the ones scattered through her skirt. Martin stared, first at her and then at Jon.

“So… I basically… gave him my number by fixing his wing?” He said, flushing.

Jon’s face darkened, too, making his circular scars stand out in contrast to his dark skin.

“Martin, It’s… a bit more than that. You helped me. I owe you a debt.” He gestured towards Martin’s pocket, where he had placed the scale. 

“I am the Eye’s Journalist, and you are the Web’s Weaver. We can’t  _ help _ each other without… forgive the word choice, tying the threads of fate together.”

Annabelle nodded sagely at this, sipping from the now-full mug of tea in her hands. Her nails rapped against the porcelain, slow and methodical.

“It’s all for the best, anywho, my dear Martin! Having a Journalist at our call is much more useful than you think.”

  
  


Martin sighed into his tea, filing that away as yet another thing Annabelle had said that he didn’t fully understand.

“And… what is a Journalist, exactly?”

Annabelle squealed, coming back over to where Jon and Martin were standing. Her blonde hair had since come undone from its bun, and now hovered right above her shoulders in bouncing curls.

“I think you should have  _ him _ explain that one, dear!”

Martin turned expectant green eyes on Jon, who immediately stiffened.

“Oh, er… Well, you know how the Orders have their Heads? Like Elias, and Annabelle?”

Martin nodded, humming a small sound of understanding.

Jon continued, punctuating his exposition with small gestures of his hand. “Well, for the Orders that are big enough - have more than one person - there’s usually a, um, second in command.” 

He gestured at himself, smiling tentatively.

“For the Eye, we have the Journalist. That’s, er, me. I record information, ask questions, etcetera. You’ve... seen my journal. That’s what I do.

“The Web has the Weaver - that’s you - who weaves Threads into Webs… and there are others, like the Distortions, but… you’d be lucky if you didn’t interact with any of them.”

He shuffled his wings behind him, eyespots shifting in the afternoon light. Martin nodded again, if only to pretend to understand, and Annabelle clapped her hands together.

“Well! It was lovely to meet you, Journalist, but I do believe you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Jon got the point as soon as she turned her gaze on him, and he very quickly set his mug down. He made eye contact with Martin one last time, motioning to his front pocket.

“Er, well, thank you for the tea, Martin. Remember, call me if you need me.”

He spun on his heels almost robotically, propelled towards the door by thin, shining strings that spooled from Annabelle’s skirt. Her smile was no longer reaching her eyes, and she very clearly wanted to give Martin an earful once Jon was gone.

  
  


The moth paused in the doorway, pushing against the thread for a moment, to turn back and wave.

“I suppose I’ll be Seeing you, then.”

And the door slammed behind him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a couple questions last time and I would love to get more! I'm a big nerd and already have an insect thought out for all the characters who are going to be in this fic so... feel free to ask me about them or speculate.
> 
> I won't be sharing my full character doc, but here are the insects for [ Jon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antheraea_polyphemus), [ Martin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Argiope_aurantia), and [ Annabelle!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Latrodectus_hesperus)
> 
> I'll share the others as they show up in the story :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon talks to his boss, and Martin meets with some old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-Typical Elias being creepy in this one... I really hate the little rat bastard
> 
> Sorry if this one doesn't flow that great? Dialogue is NOT my strong suit....

* * *

Jon took his time heading home, careful to not strain the stitches in his wing. They felt warm and comfortable between his scales, and each flap of his wings reminded him of Martin’s kind fingers.

The rain was letting up, at least, making his travels both dry and pleasantly cool. The trees swayed around him in the remnants of storm wind, and the occasional drop of water landed with a soft splatter against his wings.

Those of The Eye lived further out than the other Orders, preferring to watch and observe from a distance as the world spun on around them. Jon’s own cabin was secluded even by their standards, as Elias liked to keep him… isolated. 

Jon liked his home, though, its cozy interior, its sprawling bookshelves, its open layout. He loved the windows on the back - view open to a vast lake - that he would often sit by with a book and a mug of tea. He loved, begrudgingly, the ways Elias had adapted it to him, adding a rooftop entrance and making sure that the bedroom had room for his wingspan.

There was a garden, too, that Jon had proudly grown. It was lush and verdant and, when it rained, the flowers shone with water. He grew his own vegetables, as well, and would occasionally trade them to his neighbors in return for other handmade goods. In the spring the whole cabin smelled of honeysuckle and buzzed with pollinators, the smaller, normal bugs flitting through the garden and filling the air with color.

He touched down on his roof, shifting midair to land neatly on his feet. He was very quickly joined by the normal moths from his garden, hovering and curious around his wings. He smiled at them and waved a little greeting.

The latches on the skylight opened at his key, and he slipped down into the dim room below. The moths followed him in as they often would, finding purchase near saucers of sugar that he had left out for the hungry bugs.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights, instead pulling the blinds open on the skylight. The sun streamed through the lightly dappled glass, bathing the room in the soft amber glow of late afternoon.

There was a cough in the corner, and Jon turned without surprise.

“Elias,” he said, voice monotone.

A short, thin man stepped out from the shadows, clad in a classy purple suit and a pale yellow dress shirt. The gold buttons gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the man’s eyes reflected the light back in that same, deep yellow color.

His hair was a salt-and-pepper grey with a sharply trimmed beard to match. Two thick, yellow antennae stood up straight from his scalp, nearly laid back in careful relaxation that was as thought out as the rest of Elias’ posture. 

His wings curved downwards behind him, shorter than Jon’s but twice as flashy - their pink and yellow was a stark contrast to Jon’s muddled brown and grey. They stood out against his pressed purple suit, dramatic black eyespots finding and meeting Jon’s eyes.

“Jonathan,” he replied, voice smooth like honey. The sound of it sent irritation skittering down Jon’s back, although to any other it would seem perfectly pleasant.

“What are you doing here, Elias?” Jon snapped, pulling off his coat and bag with one jerky motion. He resolutely turned his back on the man, moving about the room to put away his belongings.

Elias strode calmly up beside him as he flitted around, stopping Jon’s movements with a cold hand on his shoulder.

“Now, that’s no way to greet a guest, is it?”

The man’s hand moved to Jon’s wing, drawing thin, chilly fingers along Martin’s warm threads.

“I see you’ve… met some interesting company. Good.”

Jon straightened at that, surprise coloring his face. He turned to look at Elias, jerking his wing from the man’s grip.

“I thought you told me not to interact with The Web?”

Elias chuckled, low and silky. “By that I meant Annabelle,” he purred, assessing the threads with amber eyes. “I wasn’t aware she had… hm, a new Weaver under her Web.”

Jon’s eyes darkened with his frown. He strode over, unbidden, to grab his journal, then turned back to face Elias.

“...Martin is kind. I would rather you didn’t… involve him in your little  _ schemes, _ Elias.”

The short man’s eyes flashed in something akin to hunger, and he stepped forward to pull the book from Jon’s hands. He leafed through it as he spoke, not even looking at the sketches flashing by under his fingers.

“Oh, of course I’ll  _ try _ not to.”

He landed on the page he was searching for, cracking the journal all the way open to peer down at the sketches.

“Hmm… a garden spider. How interesting. Nothing to be worried about, then, just another knitter, or perhaps a poet.”

He snapped the book shut, handing it back to Jon in disinterest. Jon watched the whole thing with eyes lidded in boredom, already used to Elias’ routine checks.

“I told you,” Jon said, voice hard, “he’s harmless.”

Elias hummed in consideration, his wings flaring out behind him. He gestured at the thread in Jon’s wing, a smug smile flitting across his face.

“And yet you gave him a scale, did you not.” It was not a question, as usual. Just something Elias already Knew.

Jon sighed and turned his back on the man, striding in long, even steps towards the window. He pulled it open without fanfare, gesturing out into the balmy afternoon air.

“If that’s all, Elias, I would like to eat dinner now. Alone,” He snapped, leveling hazel eyes on the smug moth.

The man just shrugged, yellow wings flaring fully open on his straightened back.

“No need to be rude, Jonathan. But if I’m not welcome, I’ll take my leave.” With a huff and a rustle of chitin, the man shifted into a small, yellow blur of wings and dust.

There was a reflection of amber eyes as he left through the window, and then the room was again silent.

Jon flipped the journal open in his hands absentmindedly, glaring down at the page in front of him.

_ Elias Bouchard - Io Moth. Automeris io. _

He snapped the journal closed and slipped it back between his wings, a flicker of green Magic shining at his touch to hide it between the scales. He breathed out a long, heavy sigh to the empty room, and then began his walk towards the kitchen.

The house was empty - aside from the moths - and he found himself missing Martin’s tea.

* * *

Martin stepped tentatively through the underbrush, his hands twitching with poorly disguised fear. He had been through this part of the Woods so many times, but it never failed to set his bones on edge.

The rain had long since ended, and the afternoon light was very quickly growing dim. The air hung with a damp humidity, thick with mist and the sounds of the forest.

A skittering ran through the trees above him, shaking water down onto his white curls, and he jumped.

High, disorienting laughter rang over the sounds of rustling leaves. It lilted and spun in melodic rhythm, like a measured waltz that was one beat off. It was simultaneously above him and behind him and in front of him, and the sound made his head spin.

The click of chitin grew louder, and it was with great certainty that he spun on his heels.

A person towered over him, all odd angles and disorienting curls and twisting legs. Their gender was impossible to tell in the uncertain light, and their eyes reflected a technicolor spiral of colors. Martin held back a shriek at their sudden appearance, taking in their crooked fingers and spiraling hair.

Martin's eyes travelled downwards to settle on what he knew from experience to be there, but the expectation made it no less disturbing.

From the waist down, the person was all chitin and legs and sharp twists and turns, the brown and red striped body of a centipede spiraling down from their relatively human torso. Their legs were a bright, burnt orange that made Martin’s head spin, and each leg was sharpened to a deadly point.

Their legs twitched in a dizzying pattern, clicking against each other and the trees and the ground to make a discordant symphony.

They stretched out a long, twisting hand towards him, coming closer and closer and it reached forward and-

It flicked on the lantern hanging by a branch over his head.

“ _ Martiin! _ ” They squealed, voice high and vibrating.

The warm light of the gas lantern first fell on locks upon locks upon locks of curly blonde hair, twisting and pouring and reflecting the light into reds and yellows. The light next fell on those gorgeous, technicolor eyes - which were now settled on a piercing neon blue - and reflected in a blindingly bright eye-shine.

The man - and he was now visibly a man, albeit a fairly androgynous one - smiled a wide, twisting smile.

Martin shook his head to disguise his fear, smiling a little exasperated smile.

“Michael! Would you  _ please _ stop doing that?!” He squeaked out, voice shaky.

The centipede - Michael - curled his hindquarters underneath him until he was at about eye level, orange legs twisting around his brown and red chitin.

“And a good evening to you, too, Martin,” The man crooned, running a thin and jointed finger though Martin’s pale curls. “What brings you to  _ our _ part of the forest?”

Martin swallowed, forcing his voice to come out strong.

“S...Same as always, I’m here to, um, I’m here to see Sasha.”

Michael unfurled his legs back behind him - the closest thing to standing up the man could do - and gestured forwards down the forest path.

“Ah! Well, she’s where she always is.” He paused, and a grin stretched further across his face that one naturally should. “I should warn you, though, she  _ is _ with the little Performer… don’t want you, hm,  _ walking in _ on anything!”

And, with a wink, Michael was gone.

Martin shook his head in exasperation, his face flushing a deep red. He was now far used to Michael’s antics, and yet, the man got him every time.

He continued down the path, trying his best to ignore the skittering in the branches above him.

* * *

Sasha was busily talking to someone else when he reached her cabin.

The two of them were seated in the clearing out front of it, Sasha on her curled up hindquarters and the other on a small stool. They were in animated, loud conversation, Sasha’s bubbling laugh ringing out through the dimly lit space. Lanterns glowed in the trees around them, casting Sasha’s dark hair in an orange glow.

He shouted to her, voice cracking but brimming with excitement. She turned in an instant, warm brown eyes lighting up and curls swirling in their ponytail as her head whirled around.

“Martin!” She shouted, a smile in her voice.

Her black and yellow hindquarters unfurled, carrying her briskly over to where he was hovering at the entrance to the clearing. She wrapped him in a tight, soft hug, her antennae brushing against his forehead.

He pulled back, smiling broadly at the millipede.

“Sasha!” He cried, voice brimming with glee.

He looked past her, out into the lit area, and the now visible man waved enthusiastically at the two of them. Martin’s face lit up, a broad grin slipping comfortably onto his expression.

“And  _ Tim _ ? I haven’t seen you in  _ forever _ !”

The other man rose to his feet, jogging over to join the hug huddle. His broad, red wings enveloped the two of them, making Sasha giggle.

Martin pulled away after a moment, regarding Tim with a fond gaze.

“So you’re the Performer now, huh, Tim?”

The butterfly grinned, tanned skin creasing into worn smile-lines.

“Yep! And I heard  _ someone _ is The Web’s new Weaver, eh?” He said, elbowing Martin.

Sasha noogied the both of them, rising up on her hind legs to reach their hair.

“Hey! I’m the Painter now, too, you know!” She said, pretending to be affronted.

Martin’s smile grew even broader, and he turned his wide eyes on Sasha.

“Helen finally agreed to promote you?”

Sasha beamed, the smile lighting up her dark face.

“Yep! Michael talked some sense into her.”

Tim pulled the two of them back into the clearing, gesturing Martin to a seat.

“Well, looks like we’ve all got things to catch up on, ay?” Tim said, a smile still broad on his face.

Martin sat slowly on the stool next to him, watching fondly as Tim took Sasha’s hand and pulled her over. The two were so comfortable around each other, and Martin found himself fitting into that familiar rut of jealousy. He ran through the encounter with Jon in his head, mind wandering towards brown wings and hazel eyes…

“Martin, are you listening?”

He came back to himself with a jolt, looking up at Tim with wide eyes.

“Sorry, Tim, what were you saying?”

The man leaned back, laughter sparkling in his dark eyes.

“I  _ said, _ The Eye has a new Journalist! We should go bother him, considering we’re all the same rank now and all, newly promoted and all that jazz…”

Martin started, eyes blowing even wider.

“The Journalist… you mean _ Jon? _ ” He said, voice shaky.

Sasha whirled on him, curls bouncing around her.

“You’ve  _ met _ him?” She squealed, eyes gleaming, “Martin, tell us  _ everything! _ ”

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, a nervous laugh worming its way from his lips.

“Okay, okay! It all started when I felt a Tug in my Web…”

* * *

“So… let me get this straight. You met The Journalist - who Elias is  _ very  _ protective of - and he was  _ hot _ ? And you…  _ nursed him back to life _ ?”

“I didn’t  _ n...nurse him back to life, _ Sasha! I just fixed his wing, is all,” Martin stammered, his face growing warmer by the second.

Tim cut in, leaning his face against the back of his hand.

“So… you’ve got another crush on a hot nerd? Martin, this is really a pattern that is starting to worry me-”

“ _ I don’t have a crush on him! _ ”

Martin’s hand flew up to cover his mouth as his voice cracked, his face practically glowing red by this point.

Tim let out a low, cackling laugh, leaning back and clutching his stomach. Sasha’s eyebrows threatened to get lost in her curls, and her grin was just as shit-eating as Tim’s.

“Oh my god  _ Martin… _ You’ve got it  _ bad! _ ” The butterfly giggled, shoulders shaking with glee.

“No! I- ugh,  _ Tiim… _ ” Martin whined, planting his face in his palms and struggling to ignore the ranchous laughter of his two friends.

Sasha pulled his head up with a gentle hand, her eyes sparking with mischief.

“Okay, but Martin. Sweetheart.

Now we  _ have _ to meet him.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all: will it be Michael or will it be Helen??  
> Me: jokes on you, it's both
> 
> Here are the bugs for the newly introduced characters! I know I shoved a lot of people in this one, so I'm sorry if it felt a bit rushed... there will be Many characters in this fic, hopefully.
> 
> Elias is an [Io Moth](http://entnemdept.ufl.edu/creatures/misc/io_moth.htm), Michael is an [Indian Tiger Centipede](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scolopendra_hardwickei), Sasha is a [ Yellow-Spotted Millipede](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harpaphe_haydeniana), and Tim is a [ European Peacock Butterfly](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aglais_io)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a few visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late and also short chapter! Hope you enjoy regardless, I've been really shocked at the response this fic received!!

* * *

The sun finally crested over the clouds, casting the pale blue light of early morning through Jon’s skylight and filling his room with dust motes. He woke slowly, easing awake to the sound of birds chittering outside his windows. He lay there, for a moment, allowing himself to bask in the glow of just-early-enough.

And then a moth landed on his face, sending him spluttering with laughter.

“Come on, Euridice! I told you the mouth was off limits,” he chuckled, holding out a hand for the small moth to land on. She was a Polyphemus like the rest of his moths, as most took to only keeping around insects of their own breed. He knew a few who liked to have a diverse swarm, but he preferred the simplicity of his own kind.

Another moth landed on top of his head, antennae twitching against his scalp.

“Alright, alright, stop your  _ twitching, _ Perseus! I’m up.”

He pulled himself out of bed with a groan, sending the rest of the moths fluttering up around him. He had ten moths in total, though he had the occasional passerby join his swarm depending on the time of month. The moths in his swarm lived much longer than usual, and they would only die if he died as well. He loved the little things, and he could trust them to be his friends when he had no one else...

Well, no one else but  _ Elias,  _ but he hardly counts.

Still hazy in the early morning, Jon let his thoughts drift off while he prepared breakfast for him and the moths. As he set the water to boil he thought of Martin, with his white curls and his twinkling green eyes… As he poured the water over the tea bag he thought of Martin’s warm hands in his wings, of his novelty mugs and low-fi charm and-

Jon had to squash those thoughts down then and there.  _ No use getting attached, _ he thought, setting out a dish of simple syrup for his moths. He then very delicately spooned in far too many spoons of sugar into his tea, not worrying about appearances since he was home alone.

He opened the door to his cottage with a spring in his step, heading out into his garden to have his tea there.

It really was a wonderful morning; the sun was bright but the air was not yet tinged with heat, the gentle chill of early spring filling the air. His flowers and produce were vibrant and green, all glowing with the remnants of last-night’s dew. The sky was a robin’s-egg blue, swirled with cirrus clouds like a painter’s canvas.

He settled down onto his stool, placed in the perfect center of all the plants. His moths flitted around them, forsaking their dishes to enjoy nectar straight from the flowers. A few landed on his knees and wings once he sat, their fuzzy antennae whispering against his skin.

He took a deep breath, smiling up at the sky. There was something about the quiet of morning that made him feel  _ exhilarated, _ something about the wind that stirred up feelings long-forgotten in his heart. Something about that pregnant silence where everything was still-

“Jon!”

A voice shattered the quiet and Jon squinted over the fields, at first seeing nothing… and then white curls caught his eye, bouncing as Martin Blackwood wove his way through the sunflowers. Jon let himself have one moment of pure glee before his eyes shifted further and saw… two other insects encroaching on his territory.

He was up in a heartbeat, heading towards Martin and the others before they caused any damage to his plants. As he got closer he took in the unfamiliar new faces, a primal part of him buzzing with the excitement of documenting a new species.

The taller of the two was a millipede, her chitin shining in yellow and black. Her skin was pleasantly dark, and her equally dark hair was pulled up into a messy bun held in place by a pen. Her antennae were the same yellow as her spots, and they stood out wonderfully against her hair. She wore glasses as well, though the frames were bigger than Jon’s and circular in shape, accenting the natural roundness of her face.

The shorter was a butterfly, his wings bright orange and brown with striking eyespots - although they didn’t move like Jon’s, they were just for show. His hair was close-cropped and spiky, light brown with black antennae arching above. He had a smattering of Corruption scars across his cheeks and neck, not unlike Jon’s.

And they were both waving enthusiastically at him.

Martin reached him first, all radiant smiles and calm energy. He reached for a hug but hesitated, pulling back at Jon’s look of trepidation.

“...Martin? How, exactly, did you find my house?” He asked, suspicious.

The spider colored, legs twitching behind him nervously.

“Oh! I, uh, just followed my threads?” Martin said, gesturing at Jon’s wing.

The light caught on his scales and, true to Martin’s word, a thin thread tied his wing to Martin’s jumper. Jon sighed in defeat, letting a reluctant smile cross his face. A moth took flight from one of his wings and settled itself in Martin’s curls, and Jon gave it a withering glare.

Martin chuckled, a bright and lovely sound that, for some reason, sent Jon’s heart pounding.

“Well hello there, little lady!” Martin cried, reaching up with a careful hand to hold the moth. “What’s your name?”

“That one is Pandora,” Jon muttered, still glaring at the moth. “She always gets in other people’s business, I apologize.”

Martin cooed at her, his eight eyes squinting in pleasure. Jon couldn’t help but soften, smiling at the gentle way Martin handled one of his swarm.

Encouraged, the other moths rose from Jon’s hair, fluttering over to crowd on Martin’s arms and jumper. Martin just laughed and laughed, giving attention to each of them in turn.

“This one?” He asked, eyes bright, pointing at a larger moth.

“Helios,” Jon responded, fighting back laughter as the moths pressed themselves to Martin’s skin.

“What about…um, her?” Martin laughed, pointing at a calmer moth on his back.

“That’s Athena. Seems like she likes you, Martin, she’s usually quite skittish.”

The moment was interrupted when the two others finally reached them, the millipede breathing heavily and the butterfly grinning at Martin. The small moths immediately took flight, fleeing from the strangers as Jon so wished he could.

“Marto!” The butterfly cried, slinging an arm around Martin with a grin. “Is this the cute moth you were talking about?”

Martin’s pale face went crimson, and he tried his best to bury his head in his jumper. “Tim!  _ Please- _ ”

He was interrupted by the millipede joining him on his other side and lightly punching him in the side. “Soooo… This is Jon, huh? I see why you like him!”

“ _ Sasha! _ ” Martin cried, burying further into the silky threads.

She raised her arms in defeat, turning to Jon with an outstretched hand.

“Sasha. It’s nice to meet you, Jon. You’re The Journalist, right?”

He took her hand and shook it once, businesslike, before quickly letting go.

“Yes. And you would be The Painter, I assume?” He flicked his eyes over to the butterfly - Tim - and continued, “And you’re The Performer. Elias told me that there were a few more Seconds that I should be aware of.”

Tim untangled himself from Martin and took a long stride towards Jon, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. “Yepperooni, bossman! I’m Tim. Martin’s told us a  _ lot _ about you-”

“Cut it out you two!” Martin said, extracting himself from his jumper. “Sorry, Jon, you probably don’t like being interrupted and we showed up to your house unannounced and…”

Jon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “No, it’s fine, really.” He looked up, eyes running down Tim and Sasha in calculation. His hunger won over, and he finally voiced what had been on his mind. “...Would you two mind if I entered you into my journal? It’s my job.”

Tim’s face brightened, and he rocked back on his heels.

“Hell yeah! That sounds neat!”

Sasha smiled as well, taking Tim’s hand in hers.

“If it makes up for us barging in like this, then sure.”

He gestured them towards the cottage, walking at a brisk pace without even turning to see if they were following.  _ If I have to have people in my house _ , he thought,  _ I might as well get some entries out of it. I’ve never been able to document one of The Spiral before, so it should be… interesting. _

He pushed through the door and gestured at the couch, watching with some amusement as his moths immediately crowded the newcomers.

“Do both of you feel comfortable shifting for me? You don’t have to right now but… it makes the next part easier.”

Tim struck a pose on the couch, winking at Jon.

“Wow, Jonny, we’ve  _ just _ met! Buy a guy dinner first, won’t ya?”

Jon flushed, turning swiftly to avoid eye contact. “I will… uh, take that as a yes! Sasha?”

“I’m fine with it, but I do have to warn you - wash your hands after touching me, I secrete cyanide!” She said cheerfully.

“Erm… duly noted.”

He reached into his wings and, with that same flicker of emerald green Magic, his journal appeared in his hands. He flipped it open to a new page, fingers flying across the aged pages with practiced ease.

“Tim? Common and scientific name, if you don’t mind.”

The butterfly startled and then reached for his pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper with messy handwriting on it.

“I am a…” He squinted at the paper. “European Peacock Butterfly. Uh,  _ Aglais io? _ ” It came out pronounced all wrong, and Jon held back a grimace.

He scribbled the notes down on his paper before looking back up expectantly.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” Tim said, coming to his feet. He screwed his eyes shut and, in a flash of red, a small orange butterfly joined the moths in the air. He landed on Jon’s hand with two quick flaps, and Jon carefully sketched out his eye markings and stripes in scientific detail.

Tim shifted back to stand next to Jon, peering over his shoulder at the journal.

“Wow, did you draw  _ all  _ of these?” He asked, grinning. He reached to flip the page with thin, painted fingers.

Jon snapped the journal shut, turning to Tim with a glare. “Yes. I did. Thank you for your time,  _ Performer. _ ” He then turned to Sasha, eyes softening, and gestured her over.

“Common and Scientific, Sasha?”

Sasha joined him at the table, recalling her name  _ without _ the help of a piece of paper. Sorry, Tim.

“I’m a Yellow-Spotted Millipede!  _ Harpaphe haydeniana _ , I’m pretty sure.”

Jon nodded and jotted it down, holding out an arm to her without taking his eyes off of the paper. He looked back up at the feeling of dozens of prickly legs, and Sasha curled herself into a neat coil in his palm. He made quick work of her drawing as well, and Martin watched with interest as Jon’s face became more filled out. He seemed far less painfully skinny as he had before, and his eyes even seemed to have a strange light behind them now…

Sasha shifted back, and the hunger in Jon’s eyes vanished. He turned to Martin, still frowning but not quite as sour.

“Well, Martin, would you like some tea?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new bugs for me to add to the end notes today... thanks for reading! My writing block came back near the end of this chapter, so I'm sorry if it seems rushed and stiff... I wanted to get this done and posted as soon as I could.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes a new friend, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay before we start this one I want you all to know that since Leitner is a woodlouse (I call them rolly pollys or pillbugs) I looked them up y'know to get my research done and I found a [ list of what they're called ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woodlouse#Common_names)in different parts of the world and....it's so fucking funny oh my god. this can't be real. this isn't important to the plot in any way but I find it so enjoyable that I just had to share it with you all!
> 
> edit: okay so apparently nobody calls them that but it's part of the au now.... au where Woodlice are called chiggypigs and nobody questions it
> 
> edit 2: I can't take it anymore I'm removing the chiggypig scene

* * *

Meeting with the others had gone… better than Jon had expected, and he begrudgingly admitted that, yes, he did _enjoy the company_ of Tim and Sasha.

His good mood was squashed rather quickly by the pile of journals that awaited him when he entered his study, and he scowled at Elias’ swirly signature stuck to the top with a post-it.

The previous Journalist before him, Gertrude, had left her journals in a _horrible_ state of disarray, and Jon had set it upon himself to re-meet and re-document all of the bugs in the forest. Her notes were incomprehensible at best and completely ruined at worst, so Jon had no choice than to start from the beginning.

But first, he had to organize the old records.

He had been carding through the journals for awhile when his hand brushed against a familiar-looking book - _not a journal,_ he realized - and pulled it out from the stack. It was bound in a pale leather which felt sickeningly close to flesh, and the inside cover was labeled with an all-to-familiar seal.

A shiny, gold-leaf rectangle sat gleaming in the corner of the page, bearing the curling form of an isopod and the name _Jurgen Leitner_ embossed into it. Jon recalled with some distaste the man’s entry in his journal, one of the first he had ever done.

_Jurgen Leitner. Common Pill Woodlouse - Armadillidium vulgare._

But Jon was letting his thoughts get away from himself - he had a _Leitner_ in his hands!

The cover read, in bloodread font, _A Catalogue Of Trapped Dead._ He cracked it open carefully, wincing at the grotesque popping of what looked to be a _literal human spine_ , and then flicked through the pages.

They all appeared to be startlingly similar to his own journal, though written in various scrawling handwritings on what appeared to be more stretched skin. His fingers finally brushed across an uncomfortably familiar page and he opened it fully, spreading it against his desk.

The handwriting on the page was the scratched and messy print of Gertrude Robinson, and the sketch to go with it made Jon’s spine crawl. There was a _moth_ in this Leitner, and it just felt _wrong_.

The moth in question was sketched out in painful detail, down to the last tear in their wing. They were primarily white with small black squares and streaks dotting their wings, almost resembling newsprint. Their antennae were small and arching, scratched out in bloody pen. The name underneath was again familiar… one of Gertrude’s old assistants, he thought.

_Gerard Keay. Giant Leopard Moth - Hypercompe scribonia._ It read, each letter dripping and red. Underneath that in that same painful script was what seemed to be his entire life story, down to his untimely death of a brain tumor.

With a start Jon realized he had been reading out loud, speaking the words in a light and lilting voice as his finger traced them on the page. He felt a faint pressure right behind his eyes as he read, and he found himself unable to stop, forced to keep going.

As he read each word they lit up with a ghostly red glow, the ones closer to the top beginning to slip off the page and into the air above. The “paper” beneath his hand grew uncomfortably warm but he _couldn’t stop reading,_ and the letters continued to slide up off of the page.

His finger brushed the final word, and the book burst into heatless flames.

Red and orange embers curled upwards into the air as Jon skittered back and away from it, dropping the book onto the floor. Smoke began to pour from the page that smelled thickly of death and fire, and it swirled up and up until a column six feet tall spun over the book.

The lights in the room flickered, and then the smoke was gone.

In its place hovered a thin man, poorly-dyed black hair suspended around his head like a halo. His broad, white and black wings reached out beside him, twitching in the remains of the embers.

Gerard Keay hung there for a moment, eyes blank, before crumpling over and falling towards the floor.

Jon immediately darted forwards to catch him, sinking to the floor with the former assistant in tow. Now that he was closer he saw the eyes tattooed into Gerard’s skin, black ink marking each joint and angle of his form. The moth’s clothes were black and still vaguely smoky, some old band shirt and a pair of skinny jeans hanging off his gangly frame.

His wings were torn past flight ability, and Jon felt a pang of pity deep in his chest. He couldn’t imagine being confined to the ground like that, unable to take flight… Gerard’s wings seemed _clipped,_ even, like someone had…

No, Jon didn’t want to think about it. Jon didn’t want to Know, although the images of Mary Keay and Gertrude Robinson were already rising unwanted to his mind.

Gerard groaned in his lap, and Jon snapped himself out of it.

The moth’s eyes flickered open - a dark brown still tinged with the red of the flames - and he groaned again. He struggled to sit up and Jon let him, backing away so that Gerard was sitting on the floor. The moth leveled Jon with a bleary glare.

“Who. The hell. Are _you?_ ” Gerard hissed, trying and failing to rise to his feet.

Jon’s throat went dry and he nearly forgot he had been asked a question. He jolted, realizing, and held out his hand awkwardly to shake. “Jon. Er, Jonathan Sims… I’m the new Journalist.”

Gerry took it with a frown, shaking Jon’s hand in a surprisingly firm handshake.

“Old hag’s gone, then?” He asked, this time successfully rising to his feet with a heavy sigh.

Jon stood as well, dusting the ashes off of his trousers. “Er… yes. I’m her successor.”

“How’d she go?”

The question blindsided Jon and he blinked in surprise before stammering out his answer. “Oh! Um, nobody knows, actually. Looked like blunt force trauma but…” He looked Gerard from head to toe, then sighed. “Personally I… think Elias was responsible.”

Gerard scoffed. “That prick? Wouldn’t put it past ‘im. I’m Gerard.” He grinned then, the spark in his eye swirling like a tiny fire. “You can call me Gerry, though, always wanted t’ be called that.”

Jon gave him a hesitant smile, straightening up. “Pleasure to meet you, Gerry.”

Gerry’s eyes widened, fixed on a point behind him, and Jon paused. Turned around. Stared.

There was a yellow door carved into the wall where there once was nothing, a door that was crisply painted, a door whose handle was _turning._

Jon was about to say something along the lines of _run_ when Gerry rushed past him, white wings pushing Jon aside to reach towards that yellow door. The door in question creaked open slowly, giving Jon a glimpse of twisting legs and curly hair and…

A man stepped out of it, straight into Gerry’s arms.

“Michael!” Gerry cried, genuine happiness in his voice.

Jon recognized The Distortion now, with his curling orange legs and twisting brown body. He had never been able to meet the man in person, thankfully, but he did recall a description of him in one of Gertrude’s journals-

_Oh. And now they were kissing._ Jon averted his eyes, face growing red, as the two embraced, Michael’s dizzying laughter filling the room.

“Gerry?” The Distortion asked, glee brimming in his voice, “How did you...? I thought you were…?” He laughed again and pressed another kiss into Gerry’s hair, centipede midsection coming around to curl around the little moth.

Gerry pulled back at that, looking Michael up and down. A frown crossed his face for a moment and then he was smiling again, tangling his hands into all that blonde hair.

“I see you’re with the Spiral now, huh?” He said, cheerfully but with trepidation behind it.

Michael’s smile fell at that, and The Distortion pulled away. “Not of my own choice,” he said, spite coloring his voice. “The _hag_ pushed me in.”

Gerry scowled at that, wrapping another hand into Michael’s twisting hair. “Well then we have _another_ thing in common, then, she put me in the _godsdamned fucking Leitner!_ ”

Michael giggled again and pulled him close, and Jon got the very strong feeling that he was imposing. He turned on his heels to leave, but was stopped by an uncomfortably long finger curling around his arm.

“Journalist,” Michael said, uncanny voice serious for the first time in a while, “Thank you.”

Jon turned and smiled at him as The Distortion reopened his door, and he watched Michael slip back into it with Gerry in tow.

“Michael, was it?” He called back, softly. “Come back some time. I’d love to put you in my journal, if the both of you don't mind.”

The two gave him matching grins, Michael’s twisting and Gerry’s fiery. Without responding they slipped into the disorienting hallways of The Spiral, and the door slammed shut behind them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so screw canon I love Gerry Keay.... he is a [ Giant Leopard Moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giant_leopard_moth) and Leitner is a [ Common Pill Woodlouse/Chiggypig/Whatever the hell you call them](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armadillidium_vulgare)
> 
> Gertrude was just kinda Mentioned but this is probably the best time to say that she is an [ Oleander Hawk-Moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daphnis_nerii)

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions are WELCOME I have a whole lot of worldbuilding notes and I relish answering questions about my wacky AU...


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